Simple Things
by SallySorrell
Summary: Jack/Renee... She tried to move on, but everything reminded her... NOW COMPLETE!
1. Wind

She loved the wind.

It reminded her of _him_.

Yes, on the windy days, she'd just stand outside, transfixed.

The wind would weave through strands of her ginger hair and toss it about in all directions.

Her hair used to be _perfect_. Every morning, before she went to work, she'd put at least an hour into brushing it. She doubted he paid such attention to his.

It was a sandy color, unable to decide between blond and brown. And it was always messy.

Then she would turn so that the wind would hit her face, full force, letting it stain her cheeks. She could feel her skin, thicker and rougher than it had normally been. Like his.

And her lips. The wind would chap her lips.

In all the times she'd kissed him, his lips had never felt smooth. She could feel the lines down each of them, deep and callused.

On more stormy occasions, the wind would chill her, and she'd shiver once or twice, just for effect. She would shut her eyes very tightly, and run her index fingers over the wrinkles that formed beside them.

His eyes were just like that, permanently creased at the sides.

Then she'd open them, and the wind would dry them out. Her eyes would water then. Either that or she'd be crying, she never wanted to decide between the two.

But she'd never seen him crying…


	2. Ring

That ring.

It sat on her dresser, every minute of every day.

Every time she passed by it, she'd drift through memories of him.

The ring was continuous, a circle, non-stop.

Non-stop, like the day they'd first met. Constant action for the good of the country.

Never-ending, like he said their love would be the first day he slipped it over her finger.

That was the only time she wore it. She never put it on anymore.

It was hollow, as was her heart. And the family he'd promised her.

Well, Kim...

She didn't know where Kim was. No one did.

She'd disappeared, just as she had when her mother died. But now she had no one to come back to.

The ring was so plain. Just a golden band. No jewels, no engraving.

Simple, a change from their complex lives and emotions.

People must've thought her to be so depressed, so helpless.

She didn't want to seem that way either.

Neither did he that day.  
That awful day.

A day no one saw coming, that no one could have comprehended.

His death? He was immortal, never ending.


	3. Photo

She longed to leave the house, but couldn't force herself into it.

He'd told her the story about the time after his wife died.

The day after, he just left his house.

He didn't put it up for sale, or pack any of his things.

He offered the house to Kim, but she didn't want anything to do with it either.

So they both left, and hadn't seen much of each other since.

She wanted to leave, but that would be acting too much like him, and then her thoughts would take off again.

She hadn't gone to work since he died, though it might've helped distract her.

She had never become so attached to a person, and over such a short time.

By the end of that first day, she _adored _him.

And it only got better from there.

She had a picture.

It wasn't on display, because she didn't want to look at it.

It rested on the top of a bag of trash she'd never taken out. She couldn't force herself to.

She'd glance at it every now and then.

He wasn't in the picture, no. He'd taken it.

They were walking along the beach, on a warm summer evening.

He had called her name right as he took the picture.

So there she was, looking over her shoulder, a perfect smile across her lips. Her eyes were just beginning to roll, as if she'd fallen for some trick of his.

She remembered them laughing right afterwards, then he caught up with her and they continued down the sand side-by-side.

Like her treasured possession among garbage?

No, this thought upset her.

She seized the picture, though a part of her disagreed, and set it up on her dining-room table.


	4. Pillow

She hadn't touched his side of the bed since he left.

She would stare it, but didn't allow herself to even brush against it.

In her sleep even, she had mentally barricaded herself to her own half.

It made sense to move the pillow, dispose of it. The doctors told her to do that, many times. Even _he_ told her to, before he left.

It was probably still crawling with the virus that had killed him. She didn't care.

It was a feathered, down pillow. The shape of his head, as long as she never touched it, was imprinted there.

She longed to rest on it, but found that both selfish and stupid simultaneously.

Many nights, she didn't even sleep on the bed; she was on the couch or floor, or anywhere but her room. Their room.

Some of his hair was on the pillow too, also results of the terrorism that had killed him.

She remembered that day.

He'd taken a long shower, her request, and she could smell some sort of cleanser on his hair. And she liked it.

She wanted to remember that, but touching the pillow was forbidden.

Forbidden. She was forbidden to return to the FBI.

Forbidden to avenge his death. And she hated _that._


	5. Phone

Her cell-phone was dead.

She wished there was some other way to describe it, maybe "out of batteries" or whatever people said.

But she didn't want to charge it either.

She knew very well, the last call in the phone's history was the last call she made to him. She wanted the message saved there, but she couldn't bear to listen to it again.

Thus, the phone remained dead, sitting on top of her computer desk, to avoid any of her temptations.

Kim had gotten her a new phone, mostly so they could stay in contact. But neither of them kept up the bargain.

Why would they call each other? They shared one interest. Him.

And neither wanted to talk about him, though they both wanted to _hear_ about him.

Senseless really.

The phone was also left alone to avoid calls from others.

Every day, she would've gotten a handful of those "I'm so sorry for you" calls.

Well she was sorry enough for herself.


	6. Aquarium

She hadn't really gone anywhere since he left.

Once she dragged herself to an Aquarium, with the hope it would be peaceful.

Mistake.

She walked in, gazing at each of the tanks with her typical, inspecting look. She found one she particularly liked, with some larger, tropical fish. Multicolored with large, flowing fins.

She didn't care to read any of the information on the exhibit signs.

The fish in it seemed equally interested in her, and swam forward in the tank, looking as courageous as a fish's expression could manage.

Courage, how like him. Until the last day, he was so gallant.

Then, cautiously, she stretched one hand forward, and tapped the glass.

The school retreated, and she sighed.

Then, hesitantly, they came back, one at a time.

Hesitance. She knew how that went.

That's how he was, before they met. And she couldn't blame him.

He trusted few people and loved even fewer.

But how could you be certain? After your love was killed by one you trusted?

His first-wife was killed because of his job.

Then what?

She fell in love with him, and _he _died.

Irony. She hated it.

She hit at the glass again, harder this time, and then turned to leave.


	7. Medicine

Her doctor had recommended a variety of anti-depressants.

She didn't take them.

The bottle sat on her bathroom counter, still sealed. She'd read over the label, the dosages and all, but never even wanted to open it.

She didn't want to open the medicine cabinet either. _His _medicine was still in there.

Heavy antibiotics, and shots, that she'd sometimes give to him when he was too weak to do it himself…

She didn't want to see those, so she'd amuse herself by reading her own bottle, to decide if she really _needed_ to take some. (Even if she decided 'yes', the bottle would remain sealed.)

Ah, she'd stumbled onto the dosages and limits.

Like the pills in the bottle, there were a definite number of her days with him.

She'd known that since day one, actually. The day he was exposed to that terrible thing…

There was no cure. No, they didn't _think_ there was a cure.

She devoted the rest of that day to finding one, with the help of the President.

She came up with an assortment of pills and shots. They couldn't destroy the virus, but they could postpone its effects.

And that's what happened.

She picked up the bottle, shut her eyes, and shoved it into the medicine cabinet, erasing the evidence.

While her eyes were shut, she ran her fingers over the creases that formed there and sighed.

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**A/N: Yah, this chapter is here for a bit of back-story, I felt it was necessary. This is the product of season seven worrying me, about Jack and all. And how compatible Jack and Ren are for one another...  
This story is much more depressing than anything I'd normally get into, but I'm writing it to work on characterizing Renee (and Jack, indirectly) and to take a break from action and get back into my beloved descriptions. Adjectives, yay!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Bookshelf

She tried looking at things in a more positive light. It made her feel better.

Thus, she _loved_ that bookshelf.

It had been in her family for many years, and some great-great-great relative had originally built it.

Now it sat, _literally_ empty in the middle of her living room. She'd sold every book on it.

_Figuratively_, it was still full of stories...

The stories that they'd shared, seemingly so long ago. After that first day, he'd come to visit her, to apoligize for something he hadn't done.

They ended up sitting beside one another on her couch, talking for hours.

Now those stories were housed on her bookshelf. Just staring at it brought the beloved stories back to her mind.

The bookshelf contented her, the couch is what didn't.

It felt empty..

She had pressed herself against the armrest at the very end, though neither of her arms were over it. They were folded in her lap.

She gazed at the opposing side of the couch. She scooted herself over, very slowly, to the middle. It still felt empty.

That first night, she had been exactly against the armrest, and he'd been right against her.

She shivered, annoyed, and reached to the other end of the couch.

A blanket was kept there. A sandy-colored one...

She sighed, and looked at her reddish colored couch.


	9. Mirror

She finally got some sleep.

Not because she wanted to, but because she'd gone at least a week without it, and at that point, had no choice in the matter.

She had practically passed out on her couch, curled up against the armrest, and under her blanket.

The sun woke her up. A single beam fought through her nearly-boarded windows, and cast itself right over her face.

She tossed the blanket off of herself, upset, and rolled off of the couch.

She walked to the bathroom, and looked at herself in the mirror, for the first time since he died.

Also, she opened the curtains to the bathroom window, allowing the sun to illuminate the room as it rose.

She hated feeling clichéd, but as she looked at her reflection, she couldn't help but see him looking back at her.

How he'd transformed her life, and how she'd done the same to his.

How he'd made her stronger, and she made him more _human_. He enabled her to work again; she enabled him to love again.

She turned back to the window and pressed her face against it, so immediately that she could've broken the glass.

It was warm, and she felt oddly complete, comfortable.

She forced herself into smiling, a dormant feeling that brought psychical pain to her lips and cheeks.

-----------  
Ending option one:

And there, as she smiled, she could hear her heart beating. She allowed herself to slip back into a resting state, and slid to the floor.

Her eyes were shut again, and she could still see him in the mirror.

Her heart beat a final time, and she sighed. Not at all in pain, not at all worried.

She was nothing but relaxed.

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Ending option two:

This newfound, confident feeling brought her back to the kitchen, then to her office.

She picked up her forgotten cell-phone from the desk and turned it on.

What would he do right now?

She knew. He'd call Kim and Tony, in whichever order best fit the circumstances.

This is where what he'd taught her had to take effect.

Move on, he was good at that.

She dialed Tony.

**

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**Author's note:**

**I couldn't decide how to end this one, so I worked out two possible scenarios. **

**I'll allow my readers to decide which they like best (and why, would be helpful) or if I should leave the option of both.**


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